3. TWO KISSES

All things need to be discovered in the evolution of a species, even the humble kiss...

Way back when Mirumda and Owongo lived and breathed the folks along the broad river, on both banks, left and right, had much about life and love to discover. They were ignorant of both good and bad, needy and distasteful, and were yet to incorporate much into their lists of experiences.

And on his way down from the Mount of the Dead Owongo was to discover one that he had never even dreamed might be high on his list of the good things in life until the very moment when Mirumda put one hand on his shoulder and pulled him towards her.

For those of us who dwell in later years when so much of life is virtually welded into our psyches, the very idea that there might be a man who had sired a child, albeit the scrap of meat residing on the Mount of the Dead and for whom his mother Mirumda wept the tears of grieving mothers everywhere and everywhen, and yet not have kissed a wench or dreamed he might is unthinkable.

Mirumda was the wench, and she paused part way back down from the Mount of the Dead by an overhanging rock that she knew, and pulled him towards her, close so that he could feel, through their furs, her heart beating, a rapturous, excited, hopeful rhythm, and she pressed her mouth firmly against. She had to. She knew not why nor what she was doing, just that she had to do it. Maybe in such a way are human instincts born.

They stood for minutes by the stony outcrop which, from that moment onwards, was called Owongo and Mirumda’s mouthing stone, and she pressed her young lips firm as the flanks of a stag against his young lips, and he felt it, and, slowly at first, so slowly the heavens might have opened and thrown a storm at them both and then closed again and they not noticed, he pressed his lips back to hers. But there was no storm save in his heart and in her head, and he knew at that moment that there would never be a wench like Mirumda. There couldn’t be, for she was special.

Then, when they finally pulled apart he was aware with monumental certainty that they had stepped over an invisible line. They had mouth-touched, and nothing would ever be the same again. How could it be? They had discovered Heaven and were carrying it with them from that moment onwards, day in and day out, like the burden of a fragrance or the weight of a thread of gossamer.

And then, wordlessly, they continued down the hillside and rejoined the party, yet they glanced from time to time at each other, and they knew what they knew.

The party was in full swing. There was food and fermented drinks, plenty of both, and the flames leapt ever higher as they were fed with great boughs of timber.

There was an orchestra of Oldsters sitting cross-legged under the shadow of an overhanging crag, wise old men maybe four tens years old, and they played on their drums and sticks and untuned reeds, and what might have been a cacophony was filled with a melody that was all of its own, and hypnotic.

Then, dancing and dizzying-round the fire, which had burned down and been constantly rebuilt, raced the lads, some still short of pipe and free of beard whilst others boasted their lengths proudly and had whiskers on their faces, but danced just the same. And now and again one of them would step out of the dance and grab a wench, who would either slap his face until it stung or go off with him into a dark corner and toy with him. For that was the way of courtship in the tribe from both sides of the wide river, and much was it appreciated by onlookers and participants alike and in just about equal measure if the singing and the hollering said anything about it.

Nearby and secretly and like nervous critters of the wild sat the unclaimed wenches, some, not fearful of any brisk wind that might blow from the northern realms, allowed more than a sensible amount of flesh to be on display. Flesh in those long-distant days, as now, won many a nervous heart.

Then there were the tots, the chidlings, the clamouring, lovely tots, and they sang, when they could remember sufficient grunts to join in, and ran about playing tig or tag and generally had an exciting time, and one cried loud from falling into glowing ashes and another laughed when he spied his parents cuddling in the flickering shadows. But that was the nature of the party.

And in the air, like a cloak of forgetfulness, hung the smoke from the poppy dust that was constantly being scattered onto embers, to fill the air with its fragrance and impudence. Breathe it in at your peril, thought Owongo, and you might see more than what is there.

“So here’s the callow-wretch fool,” came the tinkle of Beth-with. She had poppy-eyes and might dare even ghosts to share her bed if she chanced on some in her mind, and most certainly thought offending her daughter’s pathetic little man might be a great game to play.

“Come away,” urged her man, Mirumda’s father and accounted wise by some. “This is no time for nagging!”

“The callow-wretch fool stole our lass!” protested Beth-with

“Only after you cast her off!” reminded the man who had sensibly steered clear of the billowing clouds,. He was Pipe-short by name but clearly not by physical nature judging by the eyes of half a dozen unclaimed wenches.

“And now she has lost her first kidling,” sniffed Beth-with. “Of all such evil things to happen!”

“And you lost yours, well nigh two tens years back,” murmured Pipe-short calmly, “and many wenches do, so take it to heart and move on!”

“It was no doing of mine!” protested Owongo, who still had to form a mental connection between the fun and games of many turnings of the moon ago with the sad little wretch on the Mount of the Dead. And, in truth, he was not alone in his ignorance, though there were some who were beginning to see a relationship between the one activity and the nature and shape of eventual sons.

“Son, why do you think you do it?” asked Pipe-short, “when you lie with the wench and enter her, why do you think you do it?”

Owongo didn’t know, not for sure. He might have said something along the lines of because I love her like I love no other, but that was a notion beyond him and anyway the poppy-smoke was beginning to fill the air close to him.

“Because,” he mumbled petulantly.

“For this,” giggled Mirumda, and she reached both of her hands to Owongo’s head and took it gently between them, then pulled him towards her and planted such a kiss upon his lips that as far as he was concerned the entire world shook, and then, cheeky like she always was, she pushed her tongue into his mouth and filled his heart with its loving hope.

And Owongo might have passed out but for the sight, watching like an ogre from old tales, of the blonde-haired orange man, outcast but, they said, with fabulous wealth, who watched him through eyes that seemed to have turned green with envy.

Which went to make Owongo return the kiss to Mirumda, and with considerable interest, like it deserved.

TO BE CONTINUED

© Peter Rogerson 12.04.17